


Esketit

by cinne3



Category: Puyo Puyo (Video Games)
Genre: Amitié, And Then Some, Gen, Lidelle - Freeform, Ringo - Freeform, Ringo makes a grave mistake on her end, had to have asked the question, klug - Freeform, raffina - Freeform, sig - Freeform, what is rap, where do i get loot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 21:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18535420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinne3/pseuds/cinne3
Summary: Ringo introducing the rap game to rural Primp, bringing records, songs from her phone and the sweet chains.





	Esketit

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone in this iteration of the universe is a god rapper.

Ringo was in the company of everyone she knew Amitie knew attending the Primp school. There were a handful of them, enough to fill 20 of the 30 seats in class. She worked her fingers into the flaps of a box, sitting on the seat of the fountain as they were affixed to what her hand clutches at in the box in near, pitched silence. 

Ringo pulls a cheeky grin, and immediately reveals a pair of discs slotted in the first of her three fingers. The group breaks into praise.

“These are mixtapes,” she told them.  
“Songs recorded on discs to give out in the streets, like, barter - no, wait-“  
She corrects herself, saying mixtapes are sold, sold to the fans or an audience. 

“How much a price?” someone was asking.

Ringo tapped the discs over her chin in thought.   
“I would bench these $5. Depends on how good they are.”

To steal $5, $10 out of a passerby’s wallet and consent was how Primp kids are going to drive the states into war. At the time, this means they could buy all the hot chocolate and collectibles they want. And as the group was smart to catch on, their questions mingled more to a point where she couldn’t distinguish individual voices. Her hand came over her head to hush them. 

She called out to the only other student who was cross-legged on the grass and waiting. 

“Yeah, Lidelle?”

“How do we know if a mixtape is good?” she stammered. 

“Easy- but I’ll come back to it later. The rap is another question in itself,” she said, and dipping a free hand into the box again started to shuffle for the item. An aux cord tangled in her grip on showing them. 

She didn’t think about bringing the cable to start, if in modern Primp cars were still a luxury and portable games weren’t associated with Tamagotchi pets. But there was always the lure in that she tries. 

When Ringo figured all too late in discussion that she can’t trust any of them to drive yet, she hides the aux cord and the object of their focus shifts onto a ringlet of golden chains. 

Setting these beside her, Ringo digs the box for a display of stunner shades, caps, and slang printed in grunge lettering on t-shirts. 

She walks them over the arcs they, or anyone, has yet to face in their rap career. That to distinguish yourself in the competitive field, rappers project an image of their person at its core. And are faced with how they shoulder finesse, so as to not crack under the pressure. 

Ringo listed a rapper’s attributes they could’ve used to consider. But the styling choice was in their hands, she insisted them. 

Rappers, on that note, develop their craft overtime, as any artist, with set vigor to give it their all. They’re musicians in a derivative of the common arts, somehow dumbing it down to look even more common than it already is. 

Ringo said, and only if she really did curb their enthusiasm, that if any one had the hopes to try, they needed to record the backdrop of their song in advance, digitally. 

Little did she know, then, over half the group stood on their heels in protest that they be rappers from hereon out. And Ringo, staring over them, couldn’t help but laugh through her teeth. She would cycle the rest of the day to explain how laptops and music software worked. Dawning twilight before she had a chance to pack her things and leave the chiseled slab pearling, wet under the fountain spout even still.

And over the course of a week, she was interrupted by everyone that came back to her one by one, asking she bought their mixtapes. 

Amitie noticed she was lying half-awake in sun, or what little of it was exposed over the slanted roofs of Sephei Cafe. Bracing a couple steps and took her by an arm. To the school, she was gushing, something happened, like a riot broke out, and that she needed to see for herself. 

When she did, and the door flew open in front of them Amitie jumped in place next to Ringo, who made no sudden moves to walk in.

“I’m Amitie with a 3,” she mentioned. Ringo’s shoulders rolled flat as she found it harder to turn away from the group. 

Klug sported the chains she didn’t remember if he asked to borrow, winking under the ceiling lights every time his arms came over his chest and swung down. He was gesticulating gang signs she made sure to avoid in discussion and if anyone had the liability, they’d have known he was doing them all wrong. His dress shirt, bare, and where he normally cuffed the wrist he showed a repeating theme of gold. 

He voiced something to Sig, who propped a knee over one of the desks and listened. Sig, in silver blues at the belt of his pants, was open to improv after Klug, and instead fished his pockets to lie his phone on the desk facing up. He started to play hard EDM, leaned over his knee, and was singing.

Rapping, actually, Ringo thought. This wasn’t shit close to singing. She couldn’t believe she heard “You know who it is, Big Boy Siggy” come as an extension to Sig’s vocabulary now before she taught them slang. 

It was either Amitie, who rushed into the room to take sides, or Raffina, but Sig’s mixtape was being overridden by another song. And Ringo saw Lidelle beat box and snapping her fingers over a table. 

Ringo never felt more scared for her life.


End file.
